


The Little Joys (A Triptych with Fic)

by pooh_collector



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, M/M, Post-Anklet, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pooh_collector/pseuds/pooh_collector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/">kanarek13</a> created these three lovely pieces of post-finale art which I scooped up as soon as I saw them.  Because they’re gorgeous.  Of course, I had an ulterior motive.  I needed inspiration for a birthday fic, for a certain special someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Joys (A Triptych with Fic)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kanarek13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanarek13/gifts).



Title: The Little Joys (A Triptych with Fic)  
Word Count: ~4350  
Rating: PG13  
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, P/N  
Spoilers: Series finale  
Warnings: None  
Summary: [](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/profile)[**kanarek13**](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/) created these three lovely pieces of post-finale art which I scooped up as soon as I saw them. Because they’re gorgeous. Of course, I had an ulterior motive. I needed inspiration for a birthday fic, for a certain special someone.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY my dear friend, [](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/profile)[**kanarek13**](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

**One**

[ ](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/10a5l5643p3e76y/01_winterinparis.png?dl=0)

When Neal arrived in Paris, he was full of joie de vivre. It was summer in the city of light and he was free for the first time in a very long time. He had no commitments, no one looking over his shoulder, no expectations, no anklet, no Mozzie pulling him in one direction and Peter pulling him in the other. How he had dreamed of this, being able to walk the streets of this city, with a song on his lips and a skip in his step, while he had been tethered to his two-mile radius.

His final act in New York had been his greatest con, the best rush he had ever experienced. He took down the Pink Panthers while making sure that the people in his life who mattered would be safe. He had managed to con not only his adversaries, but his own team as well. There had been tense moments, putting off Mozzie, trying to convince Woodford and the other Panthers to go along with his plan, standing idly by while Woodford killed his number two, and of course Keller. Neal hadn’t intended for Peter to be forced to kill Keller, but he didn’t regret the death of the man who had caused so much pain and who was a self-confessed murderer.

In the end it was Neal’s finest con and he intended it to be his swan song, his last, well at least his last illegal one. There would be no harm in dropping roses into the bags of beautiful women, or teaching card tricks in the park or planning elaborate heists of all the best museums that he would never actually carry out.

Life needed to have its little joys.

The remainder of the summer and the fall were good days. Neal had managed to transfer enough of his ‘assets’ - the bakery had been good to him over the last few years - to Paris under his new name, Jeremy Tanner, to get himself a lovely little garret apartment to live in, to replace his wardrobe and spend those months living in a manner that he found comfortable, if not exactly luxurious. He spent his days strolling through the city, enjoying coffee and delicate pastries on the terraces of cafés, surveilling or rather exploring the museums, and drawing and painting scenes of the city that had become his new home.

But things changed when the days began to grow shorter, and the air crisper. The cold wind made walking the streets far less pleasant, his coffee cooled too quickly on the outdoor terraces, his drawings and paintings became nothing more than splashes of white and grey against a muddy brown. Even his time in the museums lost their joy.

Thoughts of how he would spend his remaining days changed from a litany of endless possibilities to the reality that Neal Caffrey was dead and all of his best skills would bring too much attention to bear on Jeremy Tanner. He couldn’t specialize in security consulting for the museums and galleries; he would be recognized eventually. The same applied to art restoration. And, there was of course no chance that he could turn his talents to his original art in any significant way. Gallery shows were marketed to the nines in the art world. He still had a decent nest egg, but it wouldn’t last forever, and he still had no idea who he wanted to be when he grew up. The lists in his head consisted only of the things he couldn’t be, not what he could.

As the days grew greyer and Neal’s mood turned to match the color of the sky, memories of the life he had left behind began to haunt his sleep and follow him around the streets. He would turn the corner onto his block in the seventh arrondissement and instead of the centuries old building in which he now lived he would see June’s mansion. Walking down the Champs-Elysées he would look and see the art deco architecture of the Chrysler Building instead of the stark metal construction of the Eiffel Tower. The sights would be followed by the characteristic sound of New York traffic, screeching tires and yellow cab horns and the smell of the hot dogs, knishes and kebabs of the street vendors.

The sights and sounds of New York surrounding him were bad enough, and if it was just the distinctive architecture and the honks, Neal could have dismissed them and carried on, but it was more than that. On a cold and snowy day in mid-January Neal was walking from the newsstand where he went to buy copies of the New York Times when he heard a voice behind him call his name. "Neal!"

Neal had heard Peter say his name a million times, in anger, in frustration, in amusement, in concern, in exasperation, in pride, in love. He knew Peter’s voice like he knew the back of his own hand. He spun on his heels on the snow-covered path hoping against hope to see Peter standing behind him and hoping just as fervently that his mind was yet again playing tricks on him.

There was a young woman in heels, walking gingerly on the icy cement, an elderly couple strolling along with their arms linked tightly together and a pair of men striding briskly down the path bundled into their jackets with their caps pulled low over their foreheads, but no Peter. Neal’s heart broke in disappointment while his head sighed in relief.

Neal had known intellectually what he was leaving behind when he enacted his plan to take down the Panthers and fake his own death; and from his short stint on Cape Verde he even had a somewhat more tangible understanding of what leaving everyone, but Mozzie, behind would mean. But, the gravity of this separation, this loss, was much more intense than he had supposed it would be. He didn’t regret what he had done, it was still the best outcome, for everyone, but he couldn’t deny that it was harder than he had expected. Neal Caffrey was dead, Matthew Keller, the Interpol mole was dead too, and the Panthers had no one to exact their revenge on while they awaited trial. He knew that Peter and El, Mozzie, June and Diana and Jones, were mourning his loss, but they were just missing him, while he was missing _all_ of them. He hadn't realized that his freedom would taste so bitter and feel so confining.

In those last few months, his relationship with Peter had seemed to come together again, to a place close to where it had been before his father and Senator Pratt drove a monumental wedge of mistrust between them. Neal knew that Peter didn’t love him the way that he loved El, but the fierce possessiveness that had marked their relationship returned as had their passion for each other. More than anything else, Neal hurt at the thought of never having that intimacy with Peter again.

That snowy day was not the last time that Neal thought he heard Peter’s voice, or thought he caught a glimpse of his former partner dressed in his dark grey wool overcoat rounding a corner. It seemed every time Neal left his apartment Peter was following him. In a strange way it was comforting. It was like the old days and the last time that Neal had been to Europe, with Peter right on his heels, trailing him through every move he made.

But, in the end Neal knew it was just Peter’s ghost, a figment created from his remembrance and his grief. The winter lasted far too long. Neal’s bed was far too cold and his heart was far too empty.

**Two**

[ ](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/d7kbccg7wh8xzwt/02_montmartre.png?dl=0)

Eventually, finally, the spring came. First the snowdrops, then the irises and the hyacinth bloomed and the trees turned bright green with new leaves. Neal’s mood brightened with the return of the sun and the warmer weather. He began to enjoy his café outings and his long walks along the Seine again as the city of light reestablished itself in his vision.

He still had no long term goals, no clear idea of what he was meant to do with the remainder of his life, but a visit one afternoon to Montmartre gave him a starting place. Artists were lined up along the walkways with their easels and their paints and completed canvases for sale. It occurred to him that it would be nice to sit outside in the sun, a paintbrush in hand and create for a while. And, if he made the money to meet his expenses, at least through the summer months, that would be enough. Maybe it would give him the chance to begin to heal, to be able to truly visualize a future without the people he missed so dearly.

A few days later Neal found himself a spot on the sidewalk between a young bohemian woman who painted portraits of the passing tourists and an older gentleman whose passion was large neo-impressionist still lifes. The sun was warm, but not hot, the idle chatter with his neighbors was pleasant and the act of creating, mixing colors and stroking his brush along a blank canvas, released something that had been pent up in the cold of the Parisian winter. Neal felt a bit of his joie de vivre return.

For a few weeks, the sun and the company and the creativity were a balm for his troubled heart. But as spring turned to summer, Neal found himself once again longing for the only place that he had ever considered home. Instead of images of the Arc de Triomphe and the windmills of Montmartre, Neal began painting his memories, the streets of New York, the view from his old balcony at June's, and Conservatory Water in Central Park. Even Satchmo found his way onto one of Neal's canvases. He stopped himself just barely from painting the thing he missed the most, the one he missed the most. The passing tourists marveled at how well Jeremy Tanner captured the city he confessed to having never visited. It wasn’t a lie. Neal had never simply visited New York; it had been his one and only home.

Neal sat in his folding chair beside his easel, his fedora pulled down to shade his eyes from the bright afternoon summer sun. He pinched the skin at the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to ease the headache that had formed behind his eyes. He’d had a lot of headaches of late, a physical manifestation of his heartache and his longing for New York.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder and Neal’s mind immediately leapt to Peter and the million and one times that he had felt the weight of his very handsy partner’s hand in exactly the same way. Sorrow filled him at the memory.

“Jeremy, you should go home, mon ami. You haven’t look well all day.”

Neal turned and smiled a small smile at his still life painting neighbor, Henri. “I’m fine, it’s just a small headache. The fresh air is doing me good.”

Henri frowned in a fatherly way, again reminding Neal of his former partner and lover. “You are always so sad. This is the city of light, and love and life. I wish you could find a way to embrace its little joys.”

“I do,” Neal replied, tying to sound his most confident and knowing that he wasn’t really hitting the mark. “I love this place, and my apartment, the museums, and the cafés. I’m happy to be here, really. Sometimes, I just miss the people I left behind. But, I’m okay, really.”

“You cannot substitute places for people Jeremy or your heart will grow empty and cold. Find a lover, or at least a friend who is not approaching his 80th birthday. Someone you can enjoy the museums and the cafés with and maybe even the bed in your apartment.”

“Henri, if you weren’t French, I would be scandalized,” Neal responded with mock astonishment.

Henri laughed, a deep and hearty sound and then squeezed Neal’s shoulder once before releasing him and returning to his own easel.

August came and Neal's thoughts turned to what he could or should do when the tourist season ended and the other artists packed up their easels for the season. He didn't know if he wanted to spend another winter in Paris. There were other places that he loved, the coast of Italy, the Greek islands, maybe he could go back to Arusha. His remaining money would go very far there. But in his heart, leaving Paris now felt like running, something he didn't want to do anymore, not if he could help it.

The trials of the Pink Panthers were coming to a close. Several of the members of the gang had already been sentenced to long prisons stints, a couple of others were awaiting sentencing. Woodford's trial was still ongoing, thanks to the multiple charges against him, including murder. Neal thought about breaking his silence, as soon as Woodford was sentenced. He had intended to wait, until it was safer, until the Panthers had been in prison long enough that the danger of discovery would be as minimal as possible, but the thought of going through another winter alone, without even Mozzie at least knowing that he was still alive somewhere, brought tears unbidden to his eyes.

He struggled with the decision for the remainder of August and then just as September began, Woodford was sentenced to life without parole. Neal fedexed a queen of hearts to one of Mozzie's mailboxes the very next day, along with a second key and directions to the storage container where he had stashed everything he still had in his possession that he had stolen over the years. Mozzie would let Peter know when he thought the time was right and Peter could return the paintings, statues, baubles and other precious things Neal had left behind. Well, the precious things that were returnable at least. The most precious things Neal had kept with him in his heart.

Neal never expected Peter to come to Paris, he had El and their beautiful son to consider. They were his life, as was Peter’s job at the FBI, which Neal hoped to help preserve by staying hidden. If Peter didn’t know Neal was alive, he couldn’t perjure himself and risk his career and the future of his family.

Neal was content with being a friend fondly remembered. But it would help to know that Peter was out there, aware of the truth that while Neal Caffrey was dead on paper, he was alive and mostly well in the guise of Jeremy Tanner. And telling Peter and Mozzie that he was alive was the right thing to do. No one should grieve for him. It’s a terrible, horrible emotion that he had spent much of his life living with, including this last year in Paris.

**Three**

[ ](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/mb6cofqlcjyicac/03_illalwaysfindyou.png?dl=0)

Grieving for Neal had been a terrible, horrible thing, made easier only by the presence of a new Neal in his life, his beautiful precious son.

Neal had been a thorn in Peter’s side from the day his case file first landed on his desk until he wasn’t anymore and Peter had no words to describe how much the loss had hurt. Neal had been a pain in the ass, but he had been _his_ pain in the ass and Peter had grown to love him in ways he never imagined possible when James Bonds had first entered his life, with a possessiveness and a passion that was completely different than what he felt for El, but just as real and unshakable.

When Mozzie left the bottle, with the cork and the clue, Peter’s heart leapt and when he found the storage container with its unbelievable contents and the evidence that Neal was alive and well and living in Paris his heart soared. He wanted to go straight from that metal box to the airport and get on the first plane he could for Paris. And, he almost did. But, then his better sense kicked in and he realized that he would need to do things properly, for El and little Neal and for his friend and lover.

So he went home and hugged his wife tightly, whispering in her ear that Neal was alive. She held him back as they cried tears of relief and longing for the man they both missed and loved each in their own way.

When El’s anger set in, Peter sat on the couch beside her holding both of her small hands in his and tried to help her understand why Neal had done what he had. Not that it was easy for him to emotionally grasp himself, but intellectually he understood Neal’s intent. Yes, he had wanted to ensure his own freedom and this was pure Neal in all his selfish glory, but in disappearing the way he had, he had also ensured that the Panthers had no one to exact revenge on. There would be no repercussions against Peter, Diana and Jones, and no need for any of them to perjure themselves. Their careers would all benefit from the Panthers' convictions and incarceration and justice would be served. Neal deserved justice too, it was long past time for him to be off the anklet, to be free.

It took several days of laying low before Peter declared that he was taking a long weekend from the office. He and El were taking little Neal to visit her parents in Illinois. Very early Friday morning, the three of them went to the airport together. Peter said goodbye to them at the gate, kissing his son on the cheek with a warm smile before they turned to board the plane to Chicago. Then he made his way to the Air France terminal and boarded his own flight.

He knew that anyone determined could easily find out that he had not gone to Chicago with his wife and child, but he was fairly certain that no one had any reason to suspect he had other plans.

He spent the whole flight nervously anticipating his meeting with Neal. He hadn’t contacted him, only Mozzie knew that Peter was on his way to Paris. Would Neal be happy to see him, or would he be upset at Peter’s intrusion into his new life. It was hard to be certain, it was Neal after all, but Peter believed that Neal had left the clues he did because he wanted to be found when the time was right.

When his flight landed at Charles de Gaulle, Peter texted Mozzie. _Just arrived. Location?_ He waited anxiously for a response from Moz, hoping the quirky little man knew just where to find his wayward partner.

Peter had just made it to the back of the taxi stand line when Moz texted him back. _Pont Alexandre III, 8PM._

Peter checked his watch. He could just make it if he managed to get to the front of the line quickly. He tapped his foot nervously against the sidewalk and checked his watch continuously while he slowly inched his way up. The closer he got to Neal, the harder his heart thudded inside his chest. He wasn’t sure whether his first response upon seeing him would be to hug him or slug him. Understanding why Neal had faked his own death, didn’t make the emotional fallout any easier to bear.

Finally, Peter made it to the front of the line and into a taxi. The driver looked at him strangely when he insisted his destination was the middle of a bridge in the center of the city, but then he shrugged and pulled away from the curb.

As they drove Peter barely acknowledged the lights and the sights of Paris that they passed. They weren’t what Peter had come here to see. His mind focused on one image, his friend, his partner, his lover, Neal standing on the bridge waiting for him.

When the taxi finally pulled to the side of the road in the center of the bridge the sight before him was exactly as he had imagined. Neal was standing at the balustrade, the lights of the city and the Eiffel Tower glimmering before him. His dark suit glowed red in the light of the art nouveau lamps that stood sentry along the arched path across the Seine. He was alive and whole and Peter’s joy at seeing him was overwhelming.

He paid the driver and pulled himself and his carry-on out the taxi and onto the sidewalk. Neal was looking toward the Eiffel Tower, his back turned to Peter.

“Neal!” Peter called out to him, but his voice was masked by the heavy evening traffic on the bridge.

Neal closed his eyes to the beauty of the Paris skyline just after sunset. It had happened again. The fleeting sound of his name spoken by Peter’s voice. How he missed the sound of Peter’s voice.

Neal clenched his hands on the wall before him and sighed. It had been six days since he had let Moz know that he was alive. Forty-eight hours later his bespectacled friend had arrived in Paris and plopped himself down in Neal’s apartment. They had talked long into the night about New York and everything Neal had missed in the past year. When he asked outright, Mozzie confessed that he had left the clues that would lead Peter to the truth. Neal had nodded, knowing that Peter would have taken no time to solve the puzzle and that he had chosen not to come.

He reminded himself that he was supposed to be okay with that, with their continued separation by the distance of the Atlantic Ocean and the divide that Neal had placed between them with his ‘death’. But like everything else that he had felt in the past year, it was harder than he thought it would be.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder and Neal turned expecting to see Mozzie who had texted him to meet here about an hour ago.

But it wasn’t Mozzie. Instead it was his most cherished dream come to life, Peter. Neal blinked expecting the vision of his former partner to be as ephemeral as the sound of his voice had been all these months. But the feel of the hand on his shoulder remained and when Neal’s eyes opened again, Peter, his Peter was still there.

“Peter.”

Peter smiled at the sound of his name spoken by the voice he had missed hearing so much over the past year. “Neal.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Neal admitted immediately.

“I know you are.”

Before Neal could process Peter’s words the older man had him wrapped up in his arms. Peter’s hands felt strong and sure against his back and Neal let himself melt into his partner’s embrace.

“I’ve missed you,” Peter breathed into the ear that was pressed against his shoulder.

Neal nodded to communicate that he felt the same, his eloquence abandoning him from the warmth of Peter’s body pressed against his.

They stood there like that for several long minutes, until someone yelled from a car window what had to be the French equivalent of “Get a room!”

When they separated, Peter could see tear tracks traversing Neal’s cheeks in the lamplight. He dried them gently with the pad of his thumb eliciting a small smile from Neal.

“Is there someplace a little more private we can go?” Peter asked with a sly smile of his own.

“My apartment’s not too far. Would you like to walk?”

Peter nodded and grabbed the handle of his carry-on. “I would love that.”

When they reached Neal’s apartment there was no sign of Mozzie or his belongings. Neal smiled, knowing that his friend had had a hand in Peter’s arrival and that he would return once the coast was clear.

He and Peter spent a long, lovely weekend there, talking about everything they had missed in each other’s lives. They laughed and cried, they yelled and whispered; they said all the things they had wanted to in the year they were apart. They spent long hours walking the streets of Paris, drinking coffee at the outdoor cafés, watching the world go by. They spent even longer hours in Neal’s bed, reacquainting themselves with each other’s body. The passion that had fueled their sex life was as vibrant as ever.

Early Tuesday morning, not long before Peter needed to leave for the airport, Neal pulled Peter on top of his chest, feeling the weight of Peter’s solid body hold him down, ground him. Feeling Peter’s heartbeat synch up with his own. Memorizing the scent of Peter’s skin, the look in Peter’s eyes as he gazed down on him.

“I’ll be back,” Peter assured him.

Neal nodded. “I know.” He smiled and leaned up to kiss Peter deeply.

***

As fall came on full force, Neal found a job teaching art at a continuing education school for adults, thanks to his friend Henri. It didn’t take Neal long to discover that he loved it, helping others realize their talents; seeing the beauty that he could help them create. And, he was good at it too, quickly acquiring enough private students that he needed to find a small studio of his own to rent.

Despite the chill in the morning air, Neal usually took his breakfast on the terrace of one of his favorite cafés, enjoying the bustle of Paris with his coffee and pastries before heading to school or his studio.

He and Peter texted daily on the burner phones they both now carried and talked at least once a week. They were planning to meet for New Years in Montreal and Neal would finally get to hold his namesake.

It still wasn’t the easiest path, being separated by an ocean from those he loved, but it was the life he had chosen and one filled with many little joys.

 


End file.
